


Self-Defense

by DetectiveDorian



Category: Zootopia (2016)
Genre: Case Fic, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-17 23:36:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10604655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DetectiveDorian/pseuds/DetectiveDorian
Summary: At the tail end of his vacation with visiting family, Peter Moosebridge defends his granddaughter against a home invader. Guilt and sorrow take over and, with Fabienne's encouragement, Peter goes to the police to give the full story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You'll notice that it's been quite a while since I'd posted on here. Chances are, that'll happen again, and honestly I might not be able to get back to Officer Down, unfortunately. i just simply can't get myself up for it. This, however, came about as a random and sudden burst of inspiration.
> 
> Please enjoy. Hopefully this one will get a follow up chapter!

Peter Moosebridge was happy for the first time in what felt like years.  
  
Well, okay, he was perfectly content with where he was in his life; His job as a ZNN anchor had perks, benefits, and it paid pretty well. He got to meet interesting mammals during the portions where he'd be an interviewer, and despite reporting on some... Unsettling things, he really couldn't complain on the whole.  
  
No, nearly two decades on the streets of Happytown with nothing but a microphone, tripod and camera had trained him to appreciate the little things.  
  
The twenty-pound moose calf in his hooves fussed a little bit as he pressed his snout to her forehead, before giggling softly and reaching up to take hold of each of his nostrils. "Are you sure you'll be okay, Dad?" Peter lifted his head, little Patricia coming away with a few strands of hair, which made him wince, but he smiled at his oldest son.  
  
"Please, Junior, if I could handle changing _your_ diapers, I can handle anything." Junior pursed his large lips, looking sideways to his wife, who seemed to be just as worried.  
  
Peter had taken the past six days off for his vacation with the express purpose of seeing his son, daughter-in-law and eight-month-old granddaughter. The following morning would see his family off, back to the airport to head back home. Of course, this meant that Fabienne hadn't visited during the week, but she understood Peter's desire to meet Patricia. And, his trepidation of having his family meet her was also a factor. Still, she'd come by tomorrow night, and they could always make up for lost time.  
  
"That was over twenty years ago, Peter," said Vivian, fiddling with the keys Peter had given her. "I don't want you pulling something." Her eyes fell on Peter's right arm, and the oldest moose in the room snorted softly, causing Patricia to giggle.  
  
"'The Hammer' hasn't acted up in years, Viv. Go on, enjoy yourselves. Have a night together, please." He transferred his granddaughter to his good arm, extending his right hand to shoo them towards the door. "I can handle her."  
  
Finally relenting, the younger bull and cow both kissed and nuzzled their daughter's head before heading out the door, pressing the button on the remote to start Peter's SUV. For a moment, he stood near the window, watching his vehicle as it pulled out of his driveway and rolled down the street.  
  
Junior and Vivian wouldn't be back for a few hours, and Peter Moosebridge had every intention of appreciating the little thing in his arms, who had just spat up on his favorite shirt. "Not even five minutes after they left," he mused, smiling down at the calf, who grinned up at him as if she were proud of herself. "Already trying to prove the old moose wrong, are you? Well. I can accept that challenge, _missy."_  
  
Two and a half hours later, her belly full of formula, diaper changed and gases passed, Patricia had been laid down for the night. His oldest son's old room had been remodeled to serve as a guest room, with a queen-sized bed to the left against the far wall, a simple dresser, and a closet in the wall to the right. For the past week, however, a crib had been set up next to the bed, with a little rotating model, designed after one from a popular movie that apparently Patricia absolutely loved.  
  
Peter had met the actress who played the main character, pardon the pun, and she was as pleasant and carefree a mare as her role. Nothing against her, but he'd gotten quite tired of the film after watching it for the eighth time that week.  
  
Rubbing his right shoulder, Peter stopped in the bathroom to take care of some business he'd been putting off until Patricia had been put to bed, and came out with some over-the-counter painkillers. He hadn't been completely honest with his daughter-in-law; The old injury still ached on occasion, usually just after some minor exertion, and holding twenty pounds for almost three hours was pushing it.  
  
Tipping back the glass of water to wash down the pills, Peter moved to his living room couch and sank into the soft cushion, leaning his antlered head back with a soft sigh. In truth, Peter had lost his touch in child-rearing, and had actually gagged when he'd removed Patricia's diaper. "What has Junior fed you?" he'd asked the calf, who only cooed and chewed her hooves in response.  
  
Now, Patricia was asleep, he was on the verge of exhaustion, and his son and daughter-in-law were set to be back at any moment. All in all, he'd had a great night.  
  
Milliseconds from his eyelids falling, Peter sat up suddenly. His ears perked up, and the fur along the back of his neck bristled. "What--" Something ancient, instinctive, made him launch to his feet, head tilting automatically to avoid the ceiling fan he'd had removed months ago because his antlers had almost been taken off on more than one occasion.  
  
Why Tundra Town houses needed ceiling fans was anyone's guess.  
  
Peter moved back down the hall towards the guest room, cloven hooves closed into fists. The painkillers hadn't kicked in yet, so his shoulder was still quite sore. The closer he got to the half-open door, the more his fight-or-flight instincts screamed at him.  
  
He pushed the door open with one hoof, slowly leaning in and avoiding knocking his antlers against the door frame. Patricia's Floatzen night-light glowed softly, and Patricia herself seemed to be perfectly fine, her nostrils flaring in time with her snorting. The closet was closed, the dresser was undisturbed, and the window's curtains were billowing softly in the breeze.  
  
It took Peter ten seconds to remember that he hadn't opened the window when putting Patricia to bed.  
  
Slowly, the middle-aged moose moved into the room, shoulders already heaving as adrenalin started pumping in his ears. He forced himself to calm down, looking around the small room. Whoever had entered the room had to have disabled his alarm system. State-of-the-art home security, his fuzzy--  
  
Peter's eyes snapped to the bed where his son had been sleeping just last night. A shadow had moved underneath it, cast by Patricia's night light. He turned left, his back to the closet, starting towards the bed. However, a bigger shadow fell on him before a pair of arms clamped his elbows to his sides. With a yelp of surprise, he bent his knees, then pushed back. He was bigger and stronger than the mammal behind him, and he slammed them into the open closet.  
  
Their grip broken, he pulled away and spun around, placing himself between the burglar and the crib. Patricia had been startled awake, and she began to cry in alarm. Spurred on by the distressed calf, Peter closed the distance between himself and the silhouette of a wolf and buried his heel into his stomach.  
  
With a grunt of pain that sounded male, the wolf doubled over, and Peter grabbed the back of his hooded sweatshirt to hold him steady as he brought his knee up to collide with the side of the wolf's face. However, the wolf grabbed Peter's leg and shoved his shoulder into his stomach, knocking the older moose to the floor and knocking the wind out of him.  
  
The wolf held a paw on Peter's chest, then lifted his other fist, bringing two hammer blows down. The first hit Peter square in the eye, but the second was deflected. The former light-heavyweight boxer shoved the young wolf over, his right fist colliding with the long jaw.  
  
Both males stood, but Peter moved first, burying a left hook into the wolf's ribs, then his right fist sent the wolf reeling against the dresser, the force of which nearly sending the furniture toppling. The hood fell from the wolf's head, and a pair of blue eyes glowed in the near-darkness. Those eyes moved to look desperately at the open window.  
  
"Don't even think about it, dirtbag," growled Peter, grimacing at the pain in his shoulder. He was out of practice and crippled, but The Hammer still had some snap. "You're not getting off that easy. Get on the ground, now!" It was easy to posture, but Peter was already on his last legs, exhausted by the long day of taking care of Patricia and distracted by pain. If only he'd kept his service pistol.  
  
The wolf's eyes widened as he looked back at Peter, his own breathing beginning to quicken. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Peter saw that the wolf was young, probably barely old enough to drink, and had a thin, diagonal scar on the tip of his nose. He moved in a way that was familiar to Moosebridge; His paw moved in towards his side. He was reaching into his pocket for something, possibly a weapon.  
  
And he was three feet away from Peter's granddaughter.  
  
With a bellow of rage, Peter charged, head down. Antlers caught just under the wolf's ribs and the protective moose lifted the burglar off his feet. If it weren't for the sturdy support beam, Peter Moosebridge had no doubt that he'd have sent the wolf through the wall.  
  
Something gave under the force of his charge, and it wasn't the beam, as something warm splattered onto the back of his neck.  
  
With a howl of agony, the wolf lashed out, raking blunted-by-law hind claws against Peter's chest. The claws ruined his shirt, but didn't penetrate his thick fur. The force of the kick still sent him onto his back.  
  
With a groan, the moose slowly sat up, his shoulder throbbing. The wolf scrambled to his feet, limping towards the open window, dark liquid dripping from his chin. Peter clutched his arm, moving to his knees, but his assailant had already fallen through the portal to Tundra Town, and Peter fell onto his left side, curling up as the agony built ever higher. The wolf's footsteps faded, but Patricia was still thrashing in her crib, screaming at the top of her lungs, and he couldn't even muster the strength to tell her everything was okay.  
  
"Dad!?" Peter opened his eyes. Had he passed out? "What the hell happened!?" Junior fell to his father's side, and Vivian was clutching Patricia against her chest. Peter looked over to the window. It couldn't have been long; there wasn't much snow on the carpet.  
  
"Call the police," he gasped, clutching his arm. When Junior and Vivian blinked, staring at him incredulously, he lifted his head and raised his voice. "Now! Call 911!"  
  
* * *  
  
Nicholas Wilde flipped through the channels of his television, his uniform open and tie hanging down on his chest from his shoulders. It had been a relaxing weekend; Tundra Town had had a call a couple nights ago, but it was out of Sahara Square's jurisdiction. As much as his partner really wanted to help out on that one, and had volunteered - repeatedly - Bogo had been firm: No. Leave it to Precinct Three.  
  
Sports, sports, cartoons, sports, news, educational cartoon, spor--  
  
Nick stopped, then flipped back to ZNN. "--good to be back, Fabienne," Peter Moosebridge was saying. His co-anchor, Fabienne Growley, was just off-screen as Moosebridge looked at the camera with a nod of greeting. Danny Dropbear, a koala from Outback Island, had filled in for Pete during his vacation. While Dan's accent was quaint, Peter's firm and clear delivery was more familiar and comforting.  
  
"Moosebridge is back on the air," announced Nick, turning towards the kitchen as he placed the remote on the coffee table, getting to work on tidying his uniform.  
  
"I bet he enjoyed his vacation," called back the voice of his partner. The sound and smell of brewing coffee was calling to him, but Nick didn't move his gaze from the television as he furrowed his brow.  
  
Something was... Off about Moosebridge. Nick liked to think he was good at reading mammals, and Peter was holding himself oddly, smiling just a bit too much, overcompensating. But, for what? As Peter turned to smile at Fabienne, Nick realized it; His left eye was puffy, though undoubtedly his makeup crew prettied him up before he appeared on camera. "Peter has a shiner," he observed. Soft footsteps padded into the room behind him as his partner Judy Hopps appeared at his side, holding out his thermos.  
  
"Did he get in a fight?"  
  
"Moosebridge doesn't barhop, and he's a pretty cool guy, even off-camera," said Nick, rubbing the scruff on his chin that he hadn't trimmed yet. "So if he did, someone else probably started it." After the anchors spoke of the upcoming stories, Peter winced and rubbed his right shoulder just before the view cut to commercial. "'The Hammer' must be acting up." Which made some sense, if the theory that Moosebridge had gotten into a tussle was accurate.  
  
"...The what?"  
  
"Moosebridge was an amateur boxer about... Oh, twenty-five years ago? He had a nasty right hook that earned him the nickname 'The Hammer'. Well, specifically his right fist. He was on his way to the big time before his injury." Judy looked up at her partner, clearly amazed by Nick's apparent eidetic memory for mammals he'd met or otherwise found interest in. "Rotator cuff, compound fracture of the right humerus, collar bone snapped in half. Fell off a gondola during a skiing trip. He became a reporter instead, later won a Pawlitzer reporting on Happytown gang violence." Smirking at his partner's awe, he decided to take his time sipping his coffee before spoiling the magic. "It's in his biography on ZNN's website," he explained. Judy's ears fell and she frowned.  
  
"What, you just memorize biographies?" she asked sardonically.  
  
"Well, I was also sixteen or seventeen when he'd stepped in the ring again for charity."  
  
"Don't tell me..."  
  
"I lost eight-hundred dollars that night."  
  
"You bet on Moosebridge? At a charity event?"  
  
"Against him, actually. I figured he'd have lost his touch. Turns out 'The Hammer' still has some snap. Should have bet on the underdog."  
  
"That's terrible! You bet on a _charity event!"_  
  
"Carrots, need I remind you that I was a teenager, angry at the world, and had run away from home?"  
  
The commercials ended and Fabienne, the otherwise completely professional snow leopard, was looking sidelong at the moose as the camera view cut to her, expression worried. Turning her attention to the teleprompter, she coughed softly and began a report.  
  
"The body of a canid was discovered this morning under a snowdrift in Tundra Town," said Growley solemnly, a window popping up beside her head with the graphic of yellow police tape tied around it. "The victim has been identified as Lupe Garou, aged twenty, from a driver's license, found at the scene." The graphic changed to a square, slightly grainy picture of the victim, a grey and black timber wolf, with blue eyes and a small scar on the tip of his nose. Judging by the width of the scratch, Nick reasoned, it had come from a feline. The name "Garou" was also familiar, as it was the name of a family of Happytown residents. "Investigators have stated it is a possible hit-and-run, but they aren't ruling out other possibilities."  
  
The camera cut and panned to Peter, who was looking off-screen with wide eyes, shoulders heaving. Nick paused his windsor knot, staring at the screen as Peter reached up to rub his eye. Fabienne's paw came in from off screen, resting on Peter's wrist. The moose jumped, looking to the snow leopard's paw, then to her face, then at the camera. Nick decided not to voice his "deer-in-headlights" quip, lest Judy scold him. "Uh. Wh-- Ah," stammered Moosebridge, fumbling the teleprompter for a moment before recovering, reaching across his chest to clutch at his right shoulder, speaking quickly. "Mr. Garou was a lifelong Happy-- Happtown resident. His mother-- Dear God." Peter stared for a moment at the teleprompter, a horrified expression on his face, before he continued again. "His mother says she doesn't know what he was doing in Tundra Town, but has demanded that the ZPD... Investigate, thoroughly. He-here's Carl Musker with the details." Just before the view cut to a muskrat standing on a Tundra Town street, Peter Moosebridge lowered his face into his hooves.  
  
"What was that about?" asked Judy after a moment, staring up at Nick, whose brows were lifted, concern lining his forehead.  
  
"I..." Nick chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, a habit he'd long been trying to give up, since it had the risk of cutting through skin. However, before he could answer, both of their phones buzzed. Simultaneously, they lifted their devices, unlocked them, and stared at the screen. Judy lifted hers to show to Nick, and he could see that she'd received the same text. Chief Bogo had an assignment.  
  
 _Come to the precinct ASAP. Bring warm clothes._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I've gone back and edited the previous chapter somewhat. They're just some minor edits, but please skim over it again before reading this chapter.

Peter Moosebridge felt like utter crap.  
  
After he'd nearly broken down on live television, his producer had ordered him to take a moment once they had cut to Carl. He'd spent the last twenty minutes in the males' restroom, emptying his breakfast into one of the toilets, then furiously scrubbing his face with water from the sink until his cheeks felt raw and sore. It was a wonder he'd not shaved the fur from his face. His arm ached, and he swore the back of his neck felt... Sticky, even though he'd cleaned the blood off of it before the police had arrived at his house.  
  
"Peter?"  
  
Looking up at his reflection in the mirror, he first saw that the makeup that had been applied on his black eye had been washed away, which was no surprise. The swelling had gone down, but it still hurt, and the skin underneath the fur had darkened.  
  
Fabienne Growley was standing behind him, her brows furrowed over large blue eyes. Gently, she placed a soft paw on Peter's left shoulder. "This is the males' restroom," said Peter, his tone flat and robotic. "You're not allowed in here."  
  
"Don't you dare brush me off," said the snow leopard, her grip tightening as Peter reached across his chest to grasp his right shoulder again. He hadn't intended on pulling away from her, not that she was going to give him that chance, regardless. "Look at me. And you had better tell me what in God's name just bloody happened." Fabienne's accent, while she normally kept it as "posh" as possible when on the air, became thicker when she was excited. Or, in this case, upset and worried.  
  
Slowly, supporting himself on the sink, Peter turned. Wincing, he locked eyes with Fabienne for a moment, then turned his head away. "That wolf. Garou. He--" He shuddered as he took a breath. Despite his now-empty stomach, he nearly gagged as his throat closed up. Forcing himself to breathe, he reached up to rub the back of his neck. If he'd had claws, he'd have been scratching it raw. "He was the one who-- He-- My house, when Patricia was--"  
  
"You told the police you didn't--" Peter shook his head, and Fabienne blinked, lips parting as she stared incredulously at him, and she grasped his wrist to pull his hoof away from his neck. "You... You lied to the police?"  
  
"I didn't know what else to do," said Peter, pulling his arm out of her grasp and pressing both hooves into his face again. "I thought, maybe I didn't hit him that hard. I mean, he crawled back out of the window--"  
  
"You _lied_ to the _police,"_ Fabienne repeated, grabbing the moose's wrists again. "Didn't you see the teleprompter before getting on the bloody air?"  
  
"I didn't see the picture! If you hadn't noticed, Benny, I was preoccupied!" He threw his arms out at his sides, then gasped, the sudden action sending a wave of pain shooting through his arm. "This... Damn arm. My... My son looked at me like-- Before they'd gone out to dinner, I'd promised-- I told them--"  
  
Peter doubled over, and Fabienne supported the taller and heavier moose the best she could, moving to press herself against him. "It wasn't your fault--"  
  
"Then why do I feel like crap?" he demanded, looking at Fabienne's face again. "Why do I-- Garou had a family. I... I took him away from them."  
  
"He endangered your granddaughter," argued Fabienne. "You need to go to the police. They'll probably give an autopsy and figure out what happened. You have security cameras, don't you?"  
  
Before Peter could answer, the bathroom door opened and ZNN's producer, Denise Cavamaugh strode in, the lioness paying no heed to the sign on the door. "We're back on the air in five," she said brusquely, ignoring how close Fabienne was standing to Peter. "I tried to get you more time, but apparently that 'isn't in the schedule'." Curling her fingers in air-quotes, she stood in front of the pair in the bathroom. Paws on her hips, Denise frowned looking between the two expectantly. "Well, you'd better have a good excuse for having a meltdown on live TV."  
  
Peter swallowed, his throat dry. "I..."  
  
"Peter's arm is acting up more than usual," stepped in Fabienne. "Y'know, after his _house_ was broken into." Peter turned to stare at the snow leopard, whose long tail curled around his legs behind the knees protectively from the other predator female, even if she was smaller than the lioness. "He tried to power through it, but it got bad enough that he had to vomit."  
  
Denise sniffed the air, then grimaced at the smell of stomach contents, but narrowed her eyes at Fabienne. "See, that would be believable..." The lioness pointed at the headset screwed around her ear, then at the lapel mics Peter and Fabienne were wearing. "...If I hadn't heard it." Peter and Fabienne blanched in horror, a hoof and a paw slapping onto their chests. "Let me tell you two, the water cooler gossip around this place is better than any soap opera. But this?" She pointed a claw at Fabienne. "I tend to be the only one to give a crap at this station, and didn't take off my headset when we went to commercial. If you're lucky, no one else heard this little exchange and it wasn't recorded for the tabloids to get a hold of. If it was, I'll take care of it, but you--" Her gaze fell on Peter. "--need to get out of here. Go to the police, go home to calm down, whatever. But you can't stay here until your arm gets better."  
  
"But-- I have to--"  
  
"I'll bring Dropbear back in and he'll anchor in your place. You're still in pain and traumatized, and you need more time off." Denise took a breath and looked back and forth between the two. "Just what my day needed. One anchor having a meltdown _and_ Carl won eighty bucks." Denise huffed and turned to march out of the room. "Stupid office pool..."  
  
That threw Peter for a loop, and he turned to look at Fabienne. The fur on her cheeks was bristling, and the insides of her ears had turned hot pink. Catching Peter's flabbergasted expression, she grunted softly and winced. "I heard Carl and Danny talking about betting on us a few days ago. Was gonna tell you tonight. Apparently we're not as discreet as we thought."  
  
"Please. You practically give off _pheromones_ to each other." Denise pulled the door open, still grumbling to herself, but absently waved a paw. "Whatever makes you happy, Pete. So far it hasn't interfered with you guys' work, so I don't care."  
  
Peter could only groan. He had more important things to worry about. "Benny--"  
  
"Peter, just go to the police, alright? If you wait too long, it'll only get worse from here."  
  
"No, I... I'm going to, I just--" Peter straightened up, gulping and shaking slightly as he held himself up on the sink. "God, it's different when-- I reported on things like this for years. You'd think I'd have perspective on it. I... I panicked."  
  
"Peter." Fabienne reached out, a paw resting on the moose's cheek as she moved his head to look at her. "You don't need to tell me this. I understand. It's a terrible situation." The moose leaned on the snow leopard, wrapping his arms around her waist and squeezing her tightly. Fabienne returned the embrace, purring against his chest and pressing her nose into Peter's neck.  
  
"Two minutes, you two," said Denise, tapping her foot on the tile floor.  
  
"Pity," said Fabienne, reluctantly breaking the embrace, "it usually takes us ten." Their producer scoffed and finally went through the door, while Peter actually managed a soft scoff of amusement. "There he is. Everything will be alright, Peter. Just tell them the truth."  
  
"...Should have done that to begin with," muttered the moose, pressing his snout affectionately to Fabienne's forehead. "God, this whole thing is just..."  
  
"There's an expression for situations like this where I grew up, but it's a bit vulgar, so I'll hold off."  
  
"Appreciated." Peter leaned back, smiling down at Fabienne, who smiled right back. "I can see you tonight, right?" he asked, voice barely a whisper.  
  
_"Every_ night, if you need me."  
  
"Your place again?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
Peter's nose bumped against hers, and Fabienne brushed her cheek along the side of his snout. She'd once explained that felines had scent glands on their cheeks. Scent was how they used to communicate before evolving, and how they marked their territory. "...I love you, Benny."  
  
The snow leopard chuffed softly, leaning back and nodding. "I love you, too, Peter."  
  
Fabienne Growley's long, fluffy tail wrapped around their legs as she lifted herself onto her toes to meet Peter's lips with her own.  
  
* * *  
  
"Hopps, Wilde."  
  
Judy Hopps and Nick Wilde sat in their usual chair together in the bullpen. Bogo had just given out assignments, and had left the two smallest officers currently on the force for last, once the other officers had left the room. "Yes, Chief?" Judy stood ramrod straight, the top of her head still only barely clearing the top of Nick's even as he was sitting down and slouching, even in the imposing presence of the chief of ZPD's Precinct One, Chief Bogo. Nick had still not figured out Bogo's first name, which he'd taken as a challenge since his first day.  
  
Bogo cleared his throat, adjusting his comparatively small spectacles as he looked down at the file in one hoof, stepping slowly towards the two. "You two will be taking an assignment in Tundra Town--"  
  
"You mean the one Hopps practically begged you to be a part of, sir?" asked Nick, earning a glare from the bunny to his right. Bogo placed the file folder on the table in front of them, reaching up slowly to remove his small spectacles from his snout.  
  
"It's presumably related, but still separate," answered the cape buffalo, holding his hoof on the file so that neither of them could take it yet. "I'm sure you can guess why, Wilde."  
  
"Anyone who has seen the morning news could probably tell, Chief." Bogo nodded, lifting his hoof up before tapping one of the cloves onto the file, sounding not unlike someone was pounding a boulder with a hammer.  
  
"Peter Moosebridge's home was broken into two nights ago," said the Chief. "The burglar had apparently disabled his alarm system and went into the room that his granddaughter was sleeping in. Moosebridge had claimed that he didn't get a good look at the thief, only that he smelled like a wolf and he'd climbed out of the window once he'd fought them off."  
  
"Moosebridge has a granddaughter?" asked Judy, reaching out to take the file and open it on the table. The first photo was of Moosebridge's injuries, his right eye having swollen nearly shut already. His blue turtleneck was pulled up almost to his chin.  
  
Squinting at the photo, Nick answered Judy's question. "Yeah, Pete announced it on Furbook; Little Patricia. Named after--"  
  
"Named after his late wife," supplied Bogo, his voice almost going soft before he shook his head. Nick looked up, blinking at his boss. The former conmammal prided himself on being able to read those around him like an open book. Chief Bogo had been infuriatingly inscrutable since Nick had joined the force, and rarely showed any expression other than cold, blank glares, mild frustration with a Nick's antics, or - in exactly one case of an extremely unlucky perp who had almost run Fangmeyer over in his attempt to escape - pure, unbridled rage.  
  
Nick might have liked to be deliberately infuriating to get a reaction out of the otherwise stoic bull, but he'd strived to never cross a line after that incident, lest he become little more than a smear on Precinct One's outer wall.  
  
"Why us?" asked Judy, looking up from the file.  
  
"Because there's clearly more to this case," said Bogo, massive arms crossing over an equally broad chest. "And you two seem to have a habit of discovering clues the rest of the officers seem to miss."  
  
"It's easier to find clues when we're closer to the ground, sir," said Nick, smirking with half-lidded eyes up at the chief.  
  
"This is justifiable homicide, sir," argued Judy, ignoring Nick's quip, though a ghost of a smile graced her lips. "Moosebridge was just defending his granddaughter, even if he accidentally killed someone for it. Even if the Garou family tries to bring charges against him, he's got rights as a homeowner."  
  
"Unfortunately," grumbled Bogo, looking away, "his testimony on the events to the officers dispatched to the scene are inconsistent with new facts presented." Nick tilted his head, then turned to look at Judy, whose eyes met his, before they both looked back up at the chief. Bogo snorted softly, reaching up to rub his eyelids. "On your way here, I got a call from City Hall 'politely suggesting'--" Bogo curled the cloves of his hooves on either side of his horns for the universal airquotes gesture. "--that I put you two on this 'potentially high-profile case'."  
  
"In other words, it's a political scheme," said Nick, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms. "And if I know bureaucrats, 'potentially' is code for 'definitely'. Granted, anyone who passed basic math in middle school could probably add up that Moosebridge feels really guilty about something, and seeing as he had a meltdown on national TV, they can fit it with the discovery of Garou's body." Bogo snorted. It was as good as a "yes". However, Judy's ears perked up just as Nick narrowed his eyes.  
  
Together, both the fox and the rabbit spoke up. "Wait a sec." Blinking, they looked at each other. "'Bring warm clothes'," they intoned together. For several seconds, they were silent, before Nick turned to Bogo and Judy just looked down, embarrassed.  
  
"For the record, Chief, I promise that wasn't planned." Nick placed one paw over his heart and lifted his three fingers in the Scouts salute. "But you were going to send us to Tundra Town anyway, weren't you?"  
  
Bogo, to his credit, only huffed, turning his back on them and walking towards his office door. "Get to Moosebridge's address. It's in the file. Scour the building up and down and don't leave any stone unturned. Dismissed." Nick and Judy dropped from the chair, the rabbit holding the file out to Nick, who took it.  
  
As they headed towards the door, Nick looked at the first photo of Peter's injuries again. Something about it was off, and he couldn't figure out why. He'd have time on the trip to Tundra Town to read over the testimony, and bounce off ideas with Judy, but something about this particular photo was really going to bug him until he figured out why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look at that, I managed to get a second chapter completed, surprising even myself. 
> 
> Hopefully this was worth the wait, heh.


End file.
